Notes in thinking

Monthly Archives: April 2017

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What came flying in was bird before log in . I had to log in as a bird as I forgot I was man. Bird sound had brought a morning sweet straight from the night of its restless sleep. I make this fly to a five lined poem. The sixth waits with a tale of bird wound.

But let me not think about wounded wings of just one pigeon the girl had brought in fitting quietly into girl fist space like nest. Rather girl fitted in the pigeon’s girl space .Girl and pigeon fitted in my fistful of flesh where birds and girls fly unhindered.

We scoured unslept nights fitted with the poets words, found men busted in buses ,some Indians red and dead ,duly busted as the red ones are generally in a white scheme of things. That is nothing significant.

In a brown scheme of things brownest of them are busted ,a matter of pigments of skin .Somebody has to be busted. But all that is not significant.

In the white scheme the black or the red is the significant other.In native brown ,only shades. And depending on the shades they are busted as the other,a complex skin arrangement .

Somewhere in this skin thing is the wheat, not of our eating but a metaphor of skin color, a fairness not of judgement ,a skin deep in fairness cream. But it is not that significant.

The black shines as a charred log.The browns eye blacks as nights in weddings of brown daughters.Whites look all nonwhites as black whether black or brown or other.It is difficult to see in a darkness.

In Baltimore black kicks his Balti. A black bum reaps white batons.Black corpses shine fluorescently. Black will kick more in the night, buried in the blackest of white history.

The struggle now goes on, inside of her body with people and forces of nature, a mind pitted against an old body that rages in pallid fury. Food comes out as water in running car as we drive to people for reluctant homes.

The struggle is against people who will not cede ground for her in their space.Not well in the body, Yet she would struggle like a desperate bear in the forest hole in a net of latticed shadows in the holes as it closes around her body with people watching from the rim of the earth-hole.

The struggle will go on till the desert-show is over under the star-lit theater and men will get up and go to their homes with a few memories for night-dreams.

This man with the careless carbon stubble and carbuncular eyes was found sitting on the park bench with a towel slung on the shoulder.His mind made noises as his pearly eyes blinked at the sky wondering how this kid on the swing had slid so fast from the sky. Her feet first had touched the sky and then the brown earth.

In the blink of an eye she came down, to his nasty surprise, as though there was hardly a brown earth apart from the blue sky.His mind made noises that drowned tree- bird’s frenetic calls and the hoot of the travel-weary morning train entering the town ,the milkman’s cans striking the bicycle’s mud-guard ding-dong.

There were noises made by mind, directly from morning papers, as if the world was crushed into so much bamboo pulp and forest. There were also noises of lifetime failures, midnight fears of death clatter of bones and clay-pots of ashes , billowing smoke. The hum in his blood spoke of the vast silences that lay before him.

One enters the box with the spiked gate to make clockwise oval circles , of familiar world views, at times, with strange incursions of thoughts asking why a certain black cat beside the rock and the sprinkler exists in today’s accomplished view.

It is not the cat alone by the rock. Try changing to anticlockwise to see the strangely preoccupied faces that seemed to be thinking much on their burping stomachs and acid. Then squeals of old laughter greet morning views of mist and rabbits- disappeared rabbits that had merely jumped out of the box and gone.

There was no grass left in the box. We are making circular motions dutifully in our own square boxes. We look up to see standing people in balconies of red-and-blue houses bursting with morning men and pants. They should be back in their box soon.

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What goes on inside

We want to know yet what we goes on inside. And the morning came ,as the poet said. Mark my dream just as the poet Strand might have said. The morning is just a dream. The cuckoo in the tree above is the very morning. Below our dream is green bench with cuckoo thoughts.
Somebody will some day weave the foggiest plot around it. My body will not figure in it and will be a third party sleeper doing nothing of it.